The Summerhouse Ch. 09: Mason

Apart from Barbie, all the women were happy to have the coach's minions add their clothing to the pile from the hotwives, which had grown into quite a stash in the room's corner. Cash had replaced tokens in the garter belts, with handbags locked in the office for safe-keeping.

"And finally, our cucks. These little filthy fuckers are already going home naked, so remove your little skirts, boys and come here."

The jeering caused my cock to rise. The pats on my naked bum as I walked through the crowd. Martin got to the stage first and threw his kilt into the throng of jeering onlookers, as if he was a celebrating footballer throwing objects to an adoring audience.

"So this is Sean, Amy's husband. Martin, Victoria's husband. Jon, Clare's fiancé. Jack, Jodie's husband, who is too ill to attend. But we've promised her that we'll take damn good care of her man. And Iain, who is Scott's boyfriend." The Coach gave a chuckle and took the garter belt from Martin's outstretched hand.

"22," he called. He beat the middle-aged Jack, who towered over everyone, and Sean, who only managed 14. Iain got 21 tokens, although he didn't look finished for the evening. I passed him my bag, and he counted them and then double-checked. "We have a tie. 22 each. Each cuck gets one spank per token." I looked at Martin who smiled at me. "And then we are going to put our top two cucks in a pool downstairs!"

Martin's grin widened. I felt a firm hand on my shoulder and they pushed me towards the beefy goalkeeping coach, sat on a chair. The shirtless man had a slightly rotund figure, but he had impressive pectoral and arm muscles. He downed the beer in his hand and put the glass on the table. "22 was it?"

I nodded. Wayne had a powerful aura about him. He had a strength that I could only dream of and plenty of muscles were affixed to his colossal frame. But there was a confidence, and inner strength that was all-conquering. I couldn't argue even if I wanted to.

A man had rarely beaten me; Victoria and Clare had reddened my skin many times, but the submission at the hands of my gender had been providing blowjobs, massages, handjobs and anal sex. I had always been the submissive partner in sex, but never submitted to them.

Publicly, Wayne leant forward, grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and threw me across his lap. His trousers were rough, but my erect cock slipped between his thighs. His left hand, across my back, held me in my place as his right hand circled my bare, hairless buttocks.

Warming me, preparing my skin for an onslaught. Reassuring touches that caused my mind to slip out of focus. I could feel the burn of the humiliation on my flesh, and the glances of a hundred pairs of eyes on my degrading ordeal. I sensed the smirking, grinning expressions and heard the first smack from a neighbouring chair. It sounded like Sean.

Then another, and another. Wayne said something but in my brain-addled state with my closed eyes, I never heard what it was. The maniacal laughter of the aroused hyenas as the smacks rained on Sean, Martin and Jack further drowned it out.

The first hit landed on the seat of my butt. Firm and strong, Wayne's hand landed with a crack and my skin rippled from the strike. My body jerked and my cock rubbed against the smooth fabric of his black trousers.

But my mind swam. As the hits hammered down on my butt, my submission took me through on a dreamy voyage. I barely felt each smack, but I needed every single one. Every single strike on my backside took me further from the tawdry party and towards a state of euphoria. A heavenly, peaceful world.

Yet, twenty-two hits will not take me to the promised land, and it was over too soon. I could have stayed there for the rest of the evening. Wayne had timed his rhythm and cadence to perfection. The power behind each strike was delicious. It had left me panting.

The coach set up a pool in the visitors' changing room. The eight foot by five foot inflatable had steps on one side and the photographer sat on steps by the door. They had erected a sign, "Those who use these toilets, have a free drinks token when you do."

The Coach guided Martin and myself into the pool. "I knew you two would win. We know you love being dirty!"

"Yeah, but ..." I said, but Martin interrupted.

"How long will be here?"

"Until the party ends," the Coach replied and watched as we sat in the blue pool. "On your backs, heads at this end," he demanded, and we did as he said. "Enjoy your evening, boys."

He chuckled as he left the room. I looked at Martin who hummed. "Did you know they were going to do that?"

"Um ... a bit."

"A bit? I thought I might ..."

"What?" Martin interrupted. "Get to fuck Clare? Sit down and have a drink with Scott and talk tactics while sharing a packet of Cheese and Onion? That's not how the club works, Jon. And you know it. You knew coming to the party would mean sexual servitude, and you loved it. Sure, you'll be sore tomorrow. We both will. And we will fart lube for hours. We know that, but that is the price we pay for fulfilling our needs."

He was right, but I didn't want to admit it. Of course, I knew the Christmas Party would be a humiliating, dirty, filthy orgy of vice and debauchery. But piss play was one of Martin's favourite fetishes. It wasn't mine. I tolerated it, because it came with the satisfaction of my other needs and because it was deeply degrading that ticked all of my submissive boxes.

"I hoped that we might get to feel a bit human."

Martin sniggered. "You and I aren't human. We are man-whores. And you wouldn't change that for the world. And you and I are not getting off tonight, unless we do something in the summerhouse bedroom." I snorted in derision and he tapped me on the torso. "Look, I paid twenty-five grand for tonight. This party is a personal gift from me to the club. I've paid for everyone else to have a great time and I've paid to be fucked and spanked and pissed on."

"Worth it?"

"Every fucking penny," Martin replied. We heard a noise above us and the coach's two scrawny assistants smiled at us.

"We're busting for a slash," Xavier said and from a few feet above us, they aimed directly for my face. I closed my eyes, shut my mouth, but the warm stream hit the bridge of my nose, hair, and chin as the young man urinated over me. The pungent smell of his pee filled my nostrils, and even after he emptied his bladder, all I could smell and taste was his urine. It was disgusting, and I hated it.

Yet, my cock was erect. It was a nauseating, revolting and sickening abomination that would repulse any normal, sane person, yet my cock was stiff and my mind swam. As I lay next to Martin, in the cold piss of another man, my arousal sparked.

It did so again, when a tattooed friend of Tom swept his piss across my body, and then when footballer and footballer came to get a free drinks token and add their piss to the pool.

Sean smirked as he coated my face with his waste, that was stronger and more repugnant than any other piss that had bounced off my nostrils. Having another cuck, another submissive man, feel able to urinate over myself and Martin was especially humiliating and my cock was leaking pre-cum.

"Oh, boys!" Virginia cried as she peered into the pool. "I am busting. Which one of you most wants a bit of feminine pee." She teased us with eeny-meeny-miny-mo and then sat on the steps, so her thighs were on the edge of the pool and her crotch was hanging over the inflatable wall.

She had a sharp intake of breath and released a jet of tepid pee into my lips. For the umpteenth time, I tasted it. Her piss seeped into my mouth and across my tongue.

Salty, caustic, nasty. A noxious, unpleasant, repulsive taste that lingered in the mouth and on the nose. When she stopped, I opened my eyes to see a globule of cum dribble from her cunt, and land in my hair. Her pussy puckered and several more drops of semen hit me.

"That'll be Scott. He's very fond of my assets. Such a pity you can't clean me out properly. I know you quite like to swallow Scott's emissions."

It sounded so dirty when she said that. My cock was straining and leaking. We barely had two minutes peace as every man and woman used the pool when they had to go. The gift of a free drinks token made the extra stairs worthwhile.

My horniness never stopped. My thoughts of enduring piss play were not correct. I realised, as the Coach jettisoned a bladder full of piss onto my chest, that I enjoyed the degradation of it so much, I enjoyed the act itself. Watersports was not my thing, but humiliating watersports definitely was.

As Martin and I had two hours of pee bukkake, I knew that I would repeat this act on the lawn outside the summerhouse in an instant. When the weather was clement.

As the party drew to a close, Clare came down to see us. "The Coach said, if you two empty the paddling pool down the drain, he will let you have a shower. If you don't have a shower, you are not coming home with us!"

It was an offer we wouldn't refuse, and we stood up to see that there was at least an inch of pale yellow piss in the pool. We stunk, but we let some air out of the pool and carried it to the showers where we emptied it down the drain.

There was not enough mint shower gel for me to feel clean. I scrubbed my pores and my hair, coating my flesh liberally in the neon green soap, hoping to remove the smell and the taste from my skin. I felt as if my pores were sweating urine, and Martin laughed as I rubbed and washed every part of my body.

"It'll go," he told me. "Tomorrow, you'll have a shower in the morning, and then change your bedding and it will be nothing but a horny memory," he told me.

We nicked a couple of towels to dry off and found the party winding down. Victoria had a small sheet wrapped around her body. "I thought you were naked!"

"All the naked girls may take a sheet if they want, to make into a toga. All the naked boys are expected to deal with the cold like the brave little soldiers they aren't," she teased. "Come on, I want a cuppa. And I'm sure you boys want a release. Once you two have cleaned and sterilised all the sex toys the photographer used." She passed Martin a clear plastic bag containing a dozen dildos.

Martin's eyebrows raised. "Really? A release?"

"Of course, you two can go to the summerhouse and do whatever you want to your little winkies that make you happy," she said cruelly. "You came last Easter. You can't want it twice in a year from your wife? Stephen doesn't even get that."

Scott was behind us and he patted me on the backside. "You two fags deffo know how to look after each other's winkies!" He chuckled and then looped his arm around Iain. "I've got someone who needs a lift home. See ya after Christmas, boys!"

"Yeah, Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year."

"Merry Christmas and all that bollocks," Scott replied and gave his desperate slut a pat on the bum. He giggled and slunk off into the car park to a waiting taxi.

* * * * *

The Christmas Party was the last occasion with the football team; they suspended the league for three weeks until mid-January.

Christmas at the Braithwaite household was a relaxed affair. It was just the four of us. The dominant women permitted Martin and me to stay in the main house on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and Boxing Day, and I loved waking up from a deep slumber cuddled with Clare.

We had spent a bit of money on our hosts. They had continued to refuse any payment towards our stay, the food, or even the sex toys, condoms and lubricant. This continued to make me feel like I was taking advantage of Victoria and Martin.

Therefore, both Clare and I agreed that we would spend a four figure sum on our hosts, and they unwrapped a fucking machine. We gave the dominatrix in the house, two handmade whips, a bottle of her favourite single malt and a new leather outfit, and the submissive also unwrapped a large technicolour dildo and his favourite cologne.

Victoria and Martin had chosen tattoo designs for each other, and they had made the appointment for the New Year at the tattooist. I bought my other half a new eBook Reader, and she got us a couple's pass for unlimited film visits at the cinema. Time together was important in our lifestyle. Being in a cuckold relationship came with a lot of dangerous emotions and keeping them in check required effort.

The alcohol flowed liberally, and Martin cooked a wonderful Christmas goose. He was a superb cook, with rosemary salted roast potatoes, huge Yorkshire puddings topped with a hearty gravy, and a plethora of other vegetables.

I had expected some sort of debauchery on Christmas Day, but Victoria had made it clear to all her play partners, that they were explicitly instructed not to even contemplate contacting her. No texts, no messages, no contact. Just time spent with her husband and her friends. She didn't even open the door to their huge dungeon.

It was just like being in a "normal" relationship. Almost.